


The Silver Syringe

by sherlockian35



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bromance, Curses, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, need a beta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7491837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian35/pseuds/sherlockian35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a Post-Reichenbach Fall story.<br/>John is in pain, remembering the past. Everyone thinks John and Sherlock had just met before their case “A study in Pink”, but it’s not true. Neither of them talked about, they had met 12 years ago in a basement club. They hadn’t spoken with each other, and they didn’t know what had happened to the other in years, either.<br/>It’s a strange case for John Watson without the help of Sherlock. He is going to solve the tangled ropes of Holmes family history. The boy with the silver syringe.<br/>For the past, John is not as helpless as in the beginning of ASiP, he's hired by a fellow military mate, he's freelancer in the story at the begining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silver Syringe

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a native English speaker, so there would be grammar mistakes. I don’t have a Beta, I’d be very happy if I’ve one:)
> 
> Some scenes, and lines from transcription of A Study in Pink is used for plot element, the source is arianedevere’s livejournal page. Here is the link.  
> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html  
> I don’t know her, but her work is amazing, and I thank her with my all gratitude.
> 
> Since this is an AU. Their case "ASiP" is far different from the case in original text.

**Present**

John Watson had never been an observant man, but John could see patterns, and connect the dots easily when they’re related to the medical area. He had failed to see Sherlock’s destructive behavioural pattern, since it was about psychology. John had neither liked the class, nor the lecturer in the college. John had just realized it just after his life crashing down around him. He had lost his best friend. He was in grief. He was mourning. He had every right to be angry, feeling himself alone in the world. After his death, John had found a wooden box in his bedroom. There was a vintage silver syringe in the box, filled with a clear liquid. Sherlock’s seven percent solution. John hadn’t realized, he had still been using drugs. He blamed himself. He should have seen the symptoms, but he hadn’t.  Sherlock had always been good at disguise. It was so hurt, when he understood, someone whom he loved so much had lied to him constantly.

John tried to push his grief back when he decided to organize Sherlock’s files at that Friday night. It was a painful, heartbreaking journey to the past while he was reading the notes. The papers had filled with Sherlock’s awful handwriting. He didn’t want to erase him so quickly. His therapist warned it wasn’t erasing, but it should be done or John’s silent grieving would never end. Work would also help him. However, John wasn’t so sure of it at the twelfth Friday day without Sherlock, without hearing his voice, or his nervous foot steps.

He could accuse the patient in the morning. She was an old woman, dry and unhappy. She muttered about sins through the examination. Sherlock’s sins. Suicide was a mortal sin, and he had taken his life with his own hands. The bonus point was they’re sinners, both of them. They had lived in sin.

How dare she thought she had a right to judge him or Sherlock? Did she not see John was mourning for his friend, not for his lover? Did she not have any respect to her damned doctor? John had been extremely angry at the moment, he’d hold his tongue until her leaving. Then, he threw his mug to the wall, the destruction gave him a little satisfaction. The nurse on the shift, Mary Morstan had come to his room in a hurry. She’d heard the sound, and she was worried about him. The outburst had gone, he was feeling better than five minutes ago, but he needed to get some air. Dr. Sawyer would have seen something in his face. She nodded without any question when he asked her to leave his post early.

His job should have ended at that second. John called his handler five years ago, Captain Emily Yates. She was now Major Yates, and she was in the line of promotion. He informed he’d wanted to back his freelance work. Emily didn’t promise, but she said she was going to try.  John rarely gave his trust to anyone. Major Yates was one of them, even if they hadn’t seen each other for five years. John believed Emily could find a way for his return.

He fixed himself a drink. It was hard to forget, while Sherlock was still in the news as fake genius.  It wasn’t easy while people were still judging him, including their friends. John didn’t want to cry in that night. He sipped the amber coloured drink slowly. He didn’t want to call anyone either, he wasn’t an alcoholic not like Harry. He just wanted to come back to himself.

The hours moved in exasperating speed. John surrounded with memories, absorbed himself in the past, reading the files, sipping the oak tasted whisky. The bottle was a gift from Lestrade. John and Greg didn’t speak after Sherlock’s death. Something was damaged. John didn’t know the damage was repairable or not. He had also refused to speak with Mycroft. He repeated himself Mycroft was his brother during those insufferable months. He couldn’t accept his role in Sherlock’s falling from the grace. Not yet.

John didn’t have a mind palace, but he protected his memories fiercely. There. Their first case. A study in pink. The second time Captain Dr. John H. Watson from 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes had met while everyone believed it was the first.

Three suicides from the same institute gained the attention of the press, and Scotland Yard. High level officers in the army were also restless, the victims had been working on a military project using bottomless funds of the government. The victims were members of the St. Barts Campus as well. Captain Yates offered him a freelance job. John Watson was a good doctor, he could find what had really happened in Sir Jeffrey Patterson’s lab. Captain Yates didn’t care if they killed themselves or murdered by someone, she had only needed to know where all the money had gone.

  **Past**

St. Barts placed them in Sir Patterson’s lab, and assigned Mike Stamford as their temporary aide. The logs, journals and lab books delivered to them. It was John’s luck since he and Mike went to Barts together. He was heavier than in their young hood, but he was still friendly looking chap. Mike didn’t seem anxious, they chatted as his team settling. His team, it should be a joke because there was only a man in John’s team, and he was his army mate, Bill Murray. Bill was a reliable, and experienced nurse. He’d saved John’s life, however, he wasn’t a scientist. John couldn’t qualify himself as a scientist, either.

“Would you like to drink coffee, John?” Mike asked. John side glanced at Bill, he made a dismissive gesture with his hand. 

John finally decided a cup of coffee would be good. Mike got two cups from the mess hall. The taste didn’t change in years. It was tasted harsh, and still unnecessarily hot. They walked through the garden. John struggled while he was walking and carrying a cup. He hadn’t accustomed using a cane, and the intermittent tremor in his left hand didn’t help for his case. He usually limped heavily, and his balance wasn’t good, but he was grateful to Emily. The army life based on the trading of favours, I owe you, you owe me. She’d owed a favour to John, and she’d paid it. If he wouldn’t be successful, there would be no future jobs for an honourably discharged soldier.

John took a deep breath when Mike sat one of the banks. He felt his worry, and he hated when people thought he was an invalid. John wanted to break the awkward silence.

“What are you doing here, Stamford?”

“Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!”

John laughed, shaking his head lightly. “Do you know, Sir Patterson?”

“Not so much.” Mike said honestly. “He and his lab crew worked in the institute. He didn’t like us, I mean academics in the college. Posh git.”

“Hımmm.” John murmured. He wasn’t surprised. The animosity between the scientists at the institute, and the college was legendary. “What was he working on?”

“Did you not know? The army sent you here.”

“I have been informed, but I want to hear your opinion.”

“I wish, I knew. According to academic grapevine, something groundbreaking. His lab filled with cash, mainly military funds. You saw his equipment. He was the next Nobel laureate. He would be, he’s not bad in his field.” Mike’s voice didn’t sound right. Jealousy? He wasn’t so sure, Mike was always better in theory rather than lab works. John remembered his accidents in lab courses.

“But?” He said flatly.

Mike looked at him uneasily. “He would be if he stayed in there for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s always at outside, workshops, congresses, speeches for praising himself. His lab was practically managed by Dr. Beth Davenport, I heard that she’s a promising biochemist.”

“How many people were working in his lab?”

“His secretary Helen. Yeah, he had a secretary. A bright pharmacology student, James Phillinore, and Dr. Jennifer Wilson, biologist.”

“They’re all dead except, Dr. Wilson.” The administration of the institute, and Scotland Yard didn’t reach her after Dr. Davenport’s death. It was assumed she was afraid, and hiding. First Sir Patterson, then James Phillinore, and lastly Dr. Davenport committed suicide. All of them voluntarily took something poisonous. The post mortem tests were still in process. “Why did they kill themselves?” John muttered.

“They’re going to be famous, they believed it, and they’re on everyone’s nerves in the campus, because of their patronizing attitude. Do you kill yourself while you’re waiting a Nobel prize?”

“I don’t think so.” John shifted slightly. The tremor in his hand forced him to switch his cup to other hand. He clenched his hand. John Watson was ambidextrous, however, he mainly used his left hand in surgeries. Now, his operative hand shook without control. His therapist thought he was suffering from PTSD, and the memories of war were eating his soul.

“What about you, John? Will you stay in the town after you get Patterson mess sorted?”

“I can’t afford London if I wouldn’t get it sorted, not on army pension.”

“Couldn’t Harry help?”

The question was an innocent one, but John startled. It would be a recipe for complete disaster. A veteran suffered from PTSD, and his bitter alcoholic sister.

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” John snorted.

“I don't know, get a flatshare or something? Where are you staying now?”

“Bill and I are going to stay in the guesthouse. I should get back to the lab, and start working. Come on, who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Mike smiled. “Well, you are the second person to say that to me today.”

“Who was the first?” John was intrigued.

& & & & &

Molly Hooper’s shoulders slumped. She was a specialist registrar in the St. Barts morgue. She fancied the young, tall, pale, and handsome man named Sherlock Holmes. Molly tried to gain his attention, and she gloriously failed in each attempt. Sherlock Holmes, only consulting detective in the world, didn’t understand other people’s feelings. He couldn’t decipher the emotions. He was as socially awkward as Molly, but in a different way. Molly had worn lipstick in the morning, she’d thought it could have worked. She tried to invite him for a coffee. Sherlock had understood her invitation literally word by word as usual. Which one of them was more hopeless than the other? She didn’t know. Molly cleaned the lipstick in the break room, making coffee for him as the lord demanded.

There were unusual activity in the corridors. Even Molly Hooper had heard Sir Patterson, and two of his lab crew killed themselves. She’d thought Sherlock would be interested. However, annoyingly genius and devastatingly handsome was busy with something else. Molly overheard an army Captain was going to investigate Sir Patterson’s lab records. It was certainly strange, but Sir Patterson’s search was mostly funded by the military.  Molly didn’t like gossiping about her colleagues. Rumours started in the break room, and then roamed around the campus, including the odd chemist calling himself consulting detective. Molly had surprised when she’d learned the management allowed him to use one of the laboratories. Well, she hoped he would like the coffee.

Thankfully, the corridor was silent. Silence was a great companion for her mood. Molly Hooper wasn’t some delicate flower, even though most of the people around her believed she was bit innocent for her sake. She was tough, and smart.  Why did everyone think she was naive? She muttered something darkly to herself.

“Molly Hooper!” Molly stopped, spilling the coffee. She held the mug tightly in her hands. The voice was familiar. She turned to her back.

Mike Stamford waved his hand with a radiant smile on his face. He wasn’t alone. Some blonde hair man walked beside him. He was limping, and leaning his cane bit too much. He was stocky, middle-aged looking, and immediately catalogued as ordinary in Molly’s mind.

Molly smiled faintly. “Hello, Mike.”

“May I introduce you, Captain John Watson? Captain Watson, this is Molly Hooper specialist registrar at the St. Barts morgue.” Ah, apparently the office grapevine was true, there was really an army captain came here to investigate. It was interesting since he was in civil clothes.

“Nice to meet you.” Molly extended her hand, they froze in an awkward moment. Captain Watson was carrying a cup in his hand, and leaning on his cane with the other one. Molly blushed furiously in shame. She didn’t decide what she would do. Mike was fast. He fetched the cup from the man’s hand. They shook their hands finally. His thin lips curved into a polite smile. Molly blinked, she thought his eyes were brown, but in fact they were dark blue. There were light, silver coloured stripes in his hair.

“It’s OK, Ms. Hooper. It’s nice to meet you too. Could you please throw it in the bin, Mike?” Mike sighed, but he did it anyway.

“Is he in the lab?” It’s interesting to see Mike didn’t mention any names, but Ms. Hooper immediately understood whom Mike asked about.

“He went there.” She wished the ground could have opened up, and swallowed her.  Her palms beginning to sweat. She couldn’t rub them anywhere because of the damned mug.

“See you later, Ms. Hooper.” John Watson said.

 He looked up at them as they entered the room. John Watson knew him, and he couldn’t talk about it. They stared each other, those ocean eyes widened a bit, he controlled his posture in seconds. John Watson remembered him, remembering the way how he’d looked at him in the past.

_“Lt. John H. Watson thought he was living in a dream. He and Capt. Sholto were following a young man in the heart of the city, particular orders from the British Embassy. The city that had seen empires rising and falling. The scent in the air, the history, everything, fantasy and reality melted in same pot, pouring through the dark corners of streets. It was summer, hot and days were long. They were following his traces for four days, mostly in the nights. The nights were so different from the days._

_It was heady, dizzying. Devastatingly perfect, and corrupting. John H. Watson was from a middle class family with strict rules. He had never tasted the real life of a night under the surface. He felt he was dissolving, dissolving into a different man. Even the stars in the sky were different in here. They looked like impatient, harsh but beautiful light sources. They were not diamonds in the velvet sky. All the rush, all the people. John Watson was falling in love slowly. Falling in love with the city he’d never seen in his life before, it was so vivid, so savage._

_Time had lost its meaning, they were sleeping through the day, and only living in nights. When the sun went down, the afterglow started to rule, everything changed. Life changed in hours. If someone would tell him, there were vampires in the city. John wouldn’t discuss. Vampires would be normal in sizzling summer nights here. It affected him, it even affected his friend, Stonefaced Sholto. They were generally drunk, losing themselves in narrow streets, mixing with the organisms of the night. They didn’t know whatever it was, they were too inexperienced for it, it was pulling them, forcing to submit its unbearable will, pushing them to their limits._

_The city was alive. It had its own will, its domination, and they would only be intruders if they didn’t obey. They obeyed._

_The taste of submission was strange, it was a form of liberation. Addictive.  They hadn’t informed the name of the young man, no pictures either. They only knew his description. At the end of eternal nights, they had only learned, he was called “the boy with the silver syringe”._

_Young Watson was in a Bond-esque adventure, but adventure had certain rules. The boy with the silver syringe. Now, he had a name at least._

_The first time John H. Watson saw his face, he and Sholto were in a basement club. It was before the widespread smoking ban all around the world. The club had only one large room, the air filled with a revolting mixture of smoke, sweat, and sex. Most of them were junkies. He was in the middle of the room, dancing with another young man. The music wasn’t high, but the crowd didn’t care. The dance floor was full of with half-naked, swaying, yielding, squirming bodies.  It wasn’t their place, and both soldiers knew it._

_His moves were lazy, he looked he was unaware of the world surrounding him. John was sure he was as high as a kite. He was wearing a deep purple vest, leaving his pale torso and arms bare. The people, creatures of blistering nights, said he only used seven percent cocaine solution.  He was always carrying a box with him. His silver syringe was in there._

_He was so...so ethereal. So heartwrenchingly beautiful. He wasn’t a boy, he was twenty years old at least. Dark curls were waving around his face. His face... God... his face, sharply angular, sculpted cheek bones, chiselled, a very prominent cupid bow curling sharply in the middle, long neck, porcelain skin. John watched him. He watched him for minutes. The boy with silver syringe couldn’t be an Earthling. He could be from somewhere other than old Earth, somewhere life was graceful, and lazy. He entertained himself in here, and then he would back to his realm one day._

_John shook his head, feeling his stomach twisted in sudden pain. The boy went to the bar, coming back with a tall glass in his hand, filled with clear sprit. His gaze fell on John. Their eyes locked with each other. John couldn’t look away. Even in the smoky light, John could see, his slanted eyes were mesmerizing. They were amazing, glorious, rare mix of grey, blue, green. They were like an ocean. Stormy, cryptic, and sad. John knew there were men in the world heatedly defended their heterosexuality as they would go to bed with him tonight willingly.  He wasn’t a hypocrite like them, he hoped._

_He didn’t smile, tilting his head slightly. John shivered with unexpected fear. He fully turned, showing his perfect body to John, his arms leaning forward. The glass fall from his hand. He wasn’t inviting, he was surrendering. He was a fallen angel, finally exhausted, trapping in this unbearable world. He just would want his torment over._

_John had never felt such a pain in his heart.  Lt. John H. Watson had never felt himself so heartbroken behalf of another human. The boy with the silver syringe. The boy from another realm, he was sad, alone and vulnerable in the middle of the hungry crowd._

_John had finally taken a deep breath when they were at outside. It was too hot in the club. He was sweaty, a fair summer breeze whistled around them, drying the sweat from their bodies. They had located him at last, and called the embassy.  Sholto murmured in a low voice._

_“He wouldn’t live long... his addiction.”_

_“I know.” Lt. Watson replied. “It’s not fair.”_

_“It’s never been fair.”_

_Lt. Watson had never learned what would have happened to the young man._

He knew now. He was standing in a lab, a micropipette in his hand. His eyes were grey under the florescent lights, and John relieved. He still had that otherworldly aura around him, he looked better. He was still skinny, but he wasn’t a young, depressive looking lad anymore. The boy with the silver syringe was in thirties, charming man now.  His face was carefully blank, watching them with mild curiosity in his eyes. They had chosen different paths in years. Nothing had gone according to the plan John had it in his head. He’d never thought he would use a cane, or honourably discharge before his 20 year mark.

John was a soldier, and he had never questioned the orders. They had been ordered to find him, and they did it. The ambassador had told they only had to find his track, and called the embassy. John hadn’t gotten any idea why they had wanted to find chameleon eyes. What if John Watson and James Sholto have done something to harm him? John didn’t like the idea. He had supposed the boy had come from a wealthy family, and his family had wanted to catch him without a fuss, considering the boy’s habits.

So what was I going to do? John thought. He couldn’t tell he knew him before. The conditions had not been the best, and it would be invading his privacy. It was clear that he had made healthy decisions for his life. He wasn’t that boy. John hadn’t been the same soldier, either. Most importantly, he didn’t give any sign to recognizing him. He had been high in that night, he would not have remembered. John startled faintly as he asked.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There is no signal on mine.”

“And, what’s wrong with the landline?”

“I prefer to text.”

“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

John rolled his eyes. He was going to late. He didn’t want to leave Bill alone for so long. He should start to work. He took out his mobile from his pocket.

“Err, use mine.” He extended his phone.

He looked a bit surprised, standing up, and walking towards to John. His eyes turned into light blue. Central Heterochromia John thought. One of the impressive wonders of mother nature. His eyes had two different colours, blue and green. It was the reason his eyes turned their colours as the light changed. John blinked, a chameleon.

 “Thank you.” The chameleon eyes said. His voice was a deep, husky baritone. He was wearing a white shirt, and black jacket. Expensive clothes. John might have been right for the wealthy family. He glanced at Mike.

Mike smiled. “It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson.”

He reached his side, taking the phone. John wondered he really didn’t remember him or it was all act. John Watson also scared when he realized he wished he could have remembered him. They shared only fifteen minutes of their life, but John had felt strong sympathy to him. It of course would be a game.

He was tall, at least one hundred and eighty, he slightly turned away from him. His hands were large, but his fingers were long and slender. An artist’s fingers. For a few seconds, he looked absorbed in messaging. John tried not to watch as side glanced at his profile. His manner was a complex mixture of indifference and odd curiosity. The features of his profile were still carrying the traces of that young man twelve years ago, the pain and the sorrow.

He turned to his face, looking so young. John felt sudden heaviness on his shoulders. The expression in blue, grey eyes was surprisingly kind with a mischievous glint in his eyes. His posture, his clothes, and the style of his speech said he was vain, but not the annoyingly vain type John hated. The question, what if we’d done something to hurt him made captain uncomfortable.  Kids could make mistakes, it should be normal, just like eighteen years old John joined the army for an adventurous life. John cast a lingering gaze on full lips just before he collected himself in silent shock, realizing he wasn’t a kid anymore. John always valued honesty, even if it would hurt him. Being honest with himself was not the easiest thing in the world. As a soldier, he didn’t like conflicts, especially the inner ones. Life has been always linear in the army, constructed on binary data. Yes or no, true or false, live or die, it had only two states. There was no place for grey areas. Now, John was living in a world which invaded with infinite number of states, as those eyes somehow couldn’t decide their real colours, frequently changing like storm clouds. His eyes were provocative, careful guards of the man hiding behind.

Once upon a time, the boy with the silver syringe had been an enigma; now, he was a stranger, but the stranger still had that boyish charm with those dark tangling of curls, and lanky frame. Once upon a time, during for fifteen minutes, Lt. John H. Watson, had wholeheartedly wanted to know him, wanted to learn his secrets, feeling the boy had been someone worth to know, someone unique and talented. He could have been broken, but he would never bend for anyone. John had been afraid for his mental health, when he had opened his arms in surrender. He’d known, he didn’t fear of death. Surrender didn’t always mean survival in a war.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Mike smiled smugly as John seemed stunned.


End file.
